


what we lost to the night (but also what we gained)

by EmeraldWaters



Series: The Beacon Hills Wolf Pack and the Utterly Random and Very Dangerous Situations They Find Themselves In [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Banshee Powers, F/M, Hellhound Jordan Parrish, Nightmares, Parrish is going to go broke from having to replace so many shirts, Pre-Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prom night and her kidnap may feature as sick-sort of prequels but they don’t take the lead (they never do). And waking may ease the pain but it's not long until the worst comes back.</p><p>His life may as well be a dream. Nothing feels quite real and nothing has happened that seems to touch him. But what happens when he falls?</p><p>He wakes up.</p><p>And she falls asleep.</p><p>(Or: Lydia wishes there was a simpler way to get information).</p><p>*Ignores Season 5*</p>
            </blockquote>





	what we lost to the night (but also what we gained)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set six months after Season 4 and two years before 'Darkness and Disco Lights.'
> 
> I know Lydia wasn't there when Allison died but I imagine the Banshee knows what happened.
> 
> I have taken dialogue from both 5x01 and 5x10 regarding the book's information on Hellhounds.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to Jeff Davis. I will not make any money from this.

 

_Blinding lights and sharp teeth and pain._

_Teeth growing, ripping, shredding._

_The evil face of the fox masquerading as their friend._

_Stiles - ashen with permanent punch-black bruises - buried under rotting pumpkins and ripped velvet seats._

_Shaking, colour-stripped hands touching steel in disbelief._

_Words falling from red-stained lips and the light of fading brown eyes._

_A scream - her scream - that echoes on and on and on._

_Yourfaultyourfaulyourfault._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bolting upright in a twisted mess of blankets, Lydia clutches a sweat-soaked sheet to her stomach.

There’s an inescapable cold-dead feeling at her chest and paranoia sinks in its teeth. She raises her hands, lily-white and shaking.

Wild from panic, her eyes take a minute to focus.

_1... 2... 3... 4… 5... 6... 7... 8... 9… 10._

_10 fingers._

_She’s awake._

Lydia falls back against her pillows. Relief is too weak a word for the calm that follows. Usually she's frozen for hours, caught halfway between sleep and waking.

But even half-illuminated her room is too dim and it does not take long to admit defeat. She won't sleep. Not until her eyes refuse to open and her bones are dust. Because even if she leaves, the darkness will follow.

And despite a modicum of control over her heartbeat, the limbs that make their way down the hall are coltish.

_The pictures return regardless._

 

* * *

 

The chill won't shake;

Fine tremors run across her skin, even after a shower and even now, leaning against the counter with hands curled around a chipped mug of tea.

Natalie's absence was one positive of tonight. Lydia’s ‘moments’ are as frequent as they are without warning. And despite time of morning and soundproof walls, Lydia’s screams always bring her running.  
She doesn't wish that on anyone.

It's just, the voices in her head never leave her be. Being alone means they can push and push until her head feels like it is splitting and there's nothing to stop it. Company helps. Even before all this, Lydia had depended on others to take the edge off. She still does, even if now she values companionship over losing herself in the slick heat of another body.

She doesn't want to be alone.

Once upon a time, Stiles would've been her first call, but now she's loathe to disturb the little sleep he gets. It's no secret that he gets the worst nightmares.

( _"I enjoy it,"_ he confessed one night, _"I'm killing them, people I know and love, people I don’t, with families and I enjoy it. It's not even him it's all me. And that's what scares me the most."_ )

Lydia doesn't feel comfortable waking anybody else this late.

There is another option - she knows for a fact that he’s awake and she knows this time could prove invaluable but Lydia thinks her reluctance is justified. She’s not easily won over and even though he saved her life, Lydia was comfortable around him all too soon. It’s only been six months. She has metre-tall defences for a reason. (In the end though, Lydia chooses the lesser of two evils).

It takes her a while to sift through her contacts because apparently Stiles has changed them all, but it makes her smile in the way she never used to. He’s still funny. And it's not hard for them to be appreciative of the humour he could've lost.

It’s quite the sobering thought.

 

* * *

 

Lydia does not bother with pleasantries.

 

_Lydia | 02:13_

_When does your shift end?_

 

His reply comes in less than two minutes. A slow night then.

 

_Deputy Flambé | 02:14_

_Dawn. Why are you awake?_

 

Propping the door open with her hip, Lydia types out a vague reply, glove tucked under her arm.

 

_Lydia | 02:16_

_Couldn't sleep. I'm coming to the Station._

(She’d never admit it out loud but she has to suppress a snigger every time she sees the contact name).

 

_Deputy Flambé | 02:17_

_It's two in the morning._

_Nice of you to state the obvious Deputy,_ she thinks, lip curling slightly.

At least someone other than her is aware of the absurdity of being awake at this time.

 

_Lydia | 02:19_

_I'm aware._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the air is brutally cold - even for autumn. Unforgiving, the bitter chill slices through her jeans and toys at the leaves scattering the ground. The streetlights do little to disturb the darkness.

Lydia fights every instinct to check her shoulder as she locks the gate. It’s unsafe sure but the probability of seeing something is too high. It’s flawed logic but Lydia likes to believe that if she ignores their existence, then maybe they won’t exist. (That doesn’t stop her from hurrying to the car).

(She doesn’t remember the drive. It happens enough that she’s not even worried).

Comparatively to outside, the station is warm and Lydia loses the jacket, gloves, beanie and scarf before she reaches Jordan's desk. Seemingly he doesn’t notice her entrance, his head downturned to the pages of the Bestiary in front of him.

"That doesn't look like paperwork deputy."

Jordan doesn’t even startle; Sheriff gave the pack access to the station a month ago and the surprise has long since worn thin. He looks up then, eyes warm, "that's because it's not. Paperwork isn’t exactly the most important thing on my to-do list."

“It’s nice to know what kind of supernatural creature one is,” Lydia concedes dryly. “Now tell me, have you been having any homicidal thoughts recently?”

(It’s been long enough now that she can make jokes about it).

“Can’t say I have. Although if I’m stuck on desk duty for much longer I might do.”

She hums her assent, crossing the room to retrieve her own copy of the Bestiary. Parrish has been on the side-lines for six months now and he seems to think it’s due to a lack of trust. Lydia’s leaning more towards the fact that the Sheriff doesn’t like surprises.

His attention is back to the book by the time she returns from the coat-rack; now with the added effect of a crease between his eyebrows.  
He’s already pulled her chair around. Her chair has been a permanent fixture at his desk for roughly five months - she refused point blank to borrow Haigh’s old one. Admittedly, Lydia quite likes having her own chair at the Deputy’s desk.

More than halfway through now, they begin the newest chapter without comment. Almost immediately, Lydia writes it off as a waste of time - Parrish’s eyes are more akin to fire than anything else, but despite the faith she’s learning to put in her instincts, they cannot afford to skip even a single sentence. So, even though the chapter is unusually short, it still takes a full twenty minutes before they finish ‘Water Creatures.’

"Well that chapter was entirely useless," Lydia declares, closing the Bestiary. She sits back, appraising the effect his hands have had on his hair.

"It is a shame," Parrish replies in mock-regret. "I've always wanted to be a mermaid."

To her horror, she feels the corner of her mouth twitch.

He’s smiling at her now, that absurd little smile that does something funny to her chest. Parrish may have not known her ‘back then’ but she knows he enjoys catching her off-guard.

But despite his joking tone, Lydia can practically see the frustration. Frustration and desperation, because it’s been months and he still has no clue what he is or how to control it. Lydia understands this all too well; has first-hand experience with the awful feeling. Days blending into one another, lost, unsure if she was even awake, coming to with blood on her hands and a scream that she had no choice but to let escape. Being controlled by the force inside of her.

That’s why despite original suspicions - his arrival, his motives, his reasoning (though they ruled out pretty soon he wasn’t lying about his lack of knowledge) - Lydia was helping him. Untrustworthy or not, she wasn't about to let anybody go through what she had to. She is however, irritated at how hard he is to read and the fact that she’s _still_ trying to work him out.

A rumble of thunder marks the beginning of a storm: a reverberating _boom_ that splits the silence in half. Unperturbed, Parrish spins around, taking a dossier from the filing cabinet and opening it on the desk – Lydia notes he doesn’t try to hide it from view. Outside the window the sky is molasses black. Music is playing quietly from an ancient radio in the far corner of the room. Content to sit in the silence, Lydia laces her fingers together and watches him leaf through the papers. The warmth is making her drowsy. Idly, her gaze turns to the closed Bestiary.

Lydia lets herself get lost in the comfortable warmth and lulling quiet. Absentmindedly her finger traces an illustration on a previous page. It doesn’t take long. Unfocusing; green eyes rivet to a single spot on the wall, fingers briefly flitting across the words. Her head fills with static. Time becomes a foreign concept. Fingers start to turn the pages, at first slow, then faster and she almost has it; until she doesn’t.

In frustration, her hand slams against the desk. Jordan startles.

Lydia knows he’s looking at her, but her mind is racing a hundred miles an hour. Her banshee powers shouldn't have interfered. _Unless…_ Unless one of two things. He’s either got something to do with death, or someone is going to die.

It’s raining outside. There’s a sharp pain at her forehead.

“Do you want coffee?”

Lydia looks up sharply.

At some point she’s stood up, palms pressed to the wood of the desk. Jordan can’t quite hide his concern. The room goes from hot to ice-cold. Very suddenly, she needs out of this room.

"The Station's coffee is vile,” Lydia announces, which isn’t actually a lie. “I'll buy us some instead."

She’s on-edge and off-balance and it takes an extraordinary effort to school her expression into neutrality, especially with his eyes on her. But she’s had a lot of practice pretending. So Lydia draws herself to her full height, steel encasing her spine, and starts to turn away.

Parrish opens his mouth but she beats him to it.

"Americano. Black. I know."

(That's not what he was going to say and they both know it).

"I'll be back in ten," Lydia promises because she hasn't lied to him yet.

He just smiles in response, flicking the dossier closed. Most people would’ve pushed but Parrish never has and that frustrates her. Lydia almost wants him to slip up so she can punish him for it and they can move on. But she doesn’t want him to ask because she’s afraid she’d actually tell him.

Compared to Parrish’s office the rest of the station is quiet; eerily so. Silent lightning forks across the sky, casting peculiar shadows across the room. Her boots echo on the marble floor.

It’s unnerving.

Lydia bundles herself up quickly, turning her car keys over in her hand. There’s a 24-hour café five minutes away that she’s become quite acquainted with over the past two years.

For now, the voices have quietened almost enough for her to be able to ignore the unease in her stomach.

_Almost._

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as she steps outside, the wind bites at her uncovered face, the subsequent chill cutting through her clothes like butter. Falling hard and fast, the rain comes down loudly enough to drown out all other noise. Already shivering, Lydia pauses under the eave to open an umbrella.

Despite her foresight, the rain still manages to sting her skin; and in the two minutes it takes to reach her car, she’s soaked. To fit the key in the lock, Lydia pulls her glove off with chattering teeth, missing the sudden, frantic buzzing in her ears.

It happens too fast.

A shadow breaks away from the rest and hits her with what feels like bricks – knocking the umbrella from her hand and sending her flying backwards. She hits the ground hard. Her phone digs painfully into her hip and she feels it shatter and buckle under her weight.

Using the momentum, Lydia forces her body to roll, flipping herself up into a defensive crouch. Her body protests and she grits her teeth as a pain in her shoulder blossoms. Frantically, she struggles out of her sodden coat; eyes scanning the road wildly.

First thing she sees is razor-sharp teeth. Then claws dripping with blood and hunger in bone-white eyes.

A Wendigo. Dread settles in her stomach and bubbles up in her throat. A Wendigo’s strength can match an Alpha Werewolf’s. She doesn’t have enhanced strength or even speed – only voices in her head. _There is no way she will win this fight._ So when the Wendigo comes at her again there’s nothing she can do.

And this time it doesn’t miss.

A cry is ripped from Lydia’s throat when her head hits the sidewalk, the force with what she lands pulling hair from the roots and tearing gaping holes in her clothes.

_Hurts._

A clawed hand pulls her to a stop and the wet concrete grazes, marking her skin in long stripes. It stings, her body trying to arch away from the pain but it’s not something she can escape from. Rotten flesh fills her nose as the Wendigo leans in close. Her head feels as if it’s going to burst. Maybe now that it has her, it’s in no rush to finish her off.

_She’s wrong._

The Wendigo snarls through a row of shark's teeth and slashes viciously-curved claws across her chest. Skin and clothes and maybe even muscle give way and Lydia screams and screams and screams. Writhing, her heels scrabble, searching for purchase on the asphalt. The pain won’t stop. A whimper fights its way past her lips.

Without the strength to keep it up, her head lolls to the side and Lydia can see a pool of red staining the Tarmac. Her vision flickers.

**“Lydia!”**

His shout echoes in her ears. Demon eyes are affixed to the blood oozing out of her gashes.

_Anytime now…_

Quite suddenly the pressure across her torso lifts and unrestricted, her chest rises sharply. The sudden intake of breath – despite the much needed rush of oxygen – sends another bolt of white-hot agony through her body. If she was able to scream she would.

A growl permeates the air and her eyes snap open. Wendigo’s can’t growl.

Instead Jordan is standing there with eyes of fire; snarling around pointed teeth. Smoke curls from his shoulders and now button-less, his bloodied shirt swings open, revealing glowing skin that is – as she watches – knitting itself together. The Wendigo lays collapsed at his feet.

Behind her eyes she sees orange flames and flickering ash and Noshiko’s steady voice during a storm and she knows but when she goes to speak, it's stuck in her throat. It occurs to her that she can’t feel her upper body anymore. _She's going to die before she can tell him what he is._ Panicked, Lydia tries to move, to speak, _anything,_ but the burst of adrenaline is gone her brain doesn’t want to fight anymore. _Sleepy._

**_“Lydia?”_ **

_Somehow she knows the fire is gone from eyes._

_Warmth surrounds her and his hands slide under her legs and back and even as gentle as it is, the movement sends pain twisting through her body. The world spins and spins and spins. But like the pain, even that dulls after a while. The rocking blends into the background. She can’t really feel anything now._

_He's beautiful, even with that terrified face marred by a streak of blood._  
_Lydia can't hear his words over the roaring of her blood but she can feel them break so she smiles bloody teeth at him even as her brain shuts down._

_Even when her hand goes limp before it can unfurrow his brow._

_Even when her eyelids fall shut again, too heavy to fight their close._

_The cold seeps in._

 

* * *

 

 

When she first wakes; it’s to beeping and frantic voices and pain everywhere. Gone is the warmth from before. The voices start to shout when the beeping slows. Something slides over her face and Lydia slips back into the darkness.

The second time is to an aching chest and a sting in her hand from the drip. Natalie’s hand is in hers and with a soothing sweep of her hair and a gentle “sleep Lydia,” her eyes close again.

The third time it’s to more beeping and hushed murmurs. She makes a little gasp when her stomach clenches involuntarily and before her eyes can focus, there’s a hand on her wrist leeching the pain away. When they do, she catches the tail-end of red before they snap back to brown. Scott smiles.

There’s more than one hospital bed in the room though, and it’s occupied, an unidentifiable shape swaddled underneath the blankets.

“You lost a lot of blood,” Stiles explains, in response to her unasked question, coming up on her other side. His face is drawn and clothes rumpled, as if he’s gotten little sleep. “Isaac was the first on hand who had your blood type.”

Lydia can in fact see a head of curls poking out from under the sheets. Now that she’s noticed, the whole extended pack seems to be in the room - the others also looking pale and tired. Even Mason and Kira – usually the most animated - are tempered down. Kira’s hand is resting on Lydia’s ankle. It all feels very solemn.

Gritting her teeth, she attempts to swallow the burgeoning pain but Scott returns with the nurse; who promptly kicks them all out.

Throughout the day; Chris and her Mother both visit (the latter got called into work which is the only reason she’s anywhere but her beside) and even Derek makes an appearance; looking remarkably worried for all that supposed ‘emotional constipation.’ Even the Sheriff passes on a goodwill message through his son – there’s a jack-knifed trailer on Highway 115 that’ll take him all day to deal with. Isaac – despite the large amount of blood he transfused - is discharged as soon as he’s awake. Apparently he baffled the nurses with his almost _supernatural_ return to full health, and they had no choice but to let him go. Isaac feigns nonchalance but he’s never been subtle and when Lydia smiles his shoulders relax.

In the end only Stiles remains, managing to sneak back in after their Alpha ordered them out for the third time.

“How bad is it?”

“Four parallel gashes running from collarbone to navel, requiring a total of about 50 stitches and a blood transfusion. Bruised ribs and multiple grazes to your arms and legs. Surprisingly, you don’t have a concussion but you’ll have sore head for a while.”

He hesitates, fingers nervously dancing across the bed-rail, his lips, his jeans.

Lydia arches an eyebrow.

“They’ll scar.”

 _Oh._ Lydia almost wants to laugh at the lack of reaction those words stir. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest.

“Lydia you were so unbelievably lucky,” Stiles continues and she’s doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this serious. “The claws somehow missed everything vital. If he’d managed to nick even one of your arteries you probably wouldn’t have lived. Even without that you almost flat lined twice.”

Well that makes her feel sick. And gives her enough nightmare material to last – well forever, considering how much she already has.

“It was like everything after went right; the appearance of Parrish’s supernatural side, the ICU being unusually empty, Isaac's early arrival. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Lydia doesn’t know how to respond so she just squeezes his hand; mind turning over the information she’s been given. “Where is Parrish?”

Stiles doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Outside. He was with you up until you woke up, but he’s been outside the whole time.”

Lydia sighs deeply; an action she regrets when her whole body twinges. “Can you get him for me?”

Parrish walks in a few seconds later with tired eyes and messy hair, wearing a too-small white shirt (not that Lydia’s complaining).

“How ever did you tear yourself away from your paperwork?” Lydia asks mischievously, trying to ease the tense line of his body. The steady ache at the back of her head lessens slightly.

“I finished it,” He responds in the same tone, smiling as he takes the chair next to her bed, but there’s no doubt he actually has completed it.

“Of course you have. But tell me, were you really going to wait outside the whole time?”

Parrish’s smile is suddenly sheepish which tells her was going to do exactly that but Lydia doesn’t wait for an answer because she knows what he is and he needs to be told.

“Jordan, I think I know what you are.”

Shocked, his fists clench – training schooling the rest of his body into neutrality. Eventually he nods, and she takes that as a signal to continue.

“Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt?”

Parrish shakes his head, leaning forward in the chair.

“It’s a myth about a storm with phantom hunters riding black horses across the sky, accompanied by howling wolves and black dogs,” Lydia tells him, remembering Noshiko’s lulling voice relaying the tale to her all those weeks ago. “The dogs are spectral beasts whose eyes glow with fire. They’re a bearer of death and a Guardian of The Supernatural.”

She hands him the book in her lap.

“A Hellhound?” Parrish asks quietly after a long silence, looking up at her. For a split second his eyes flicker orange.                                                                                                 
Lydia nods and there are so many questions to ask and so many more things to consider but for now she can tell he’s content.

 

“A Hellhound,” she echoes.


End file.
